


so can we pretend sweetly before the mystery ends

by intothefirewego



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Bittersweet, Canon Era, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, I Tried, Idiots in Love, Kinda, Light Angst, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Protective Arthur, Sad Merlin (Merlin), Sappy, Secret Relationship, a little ooc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-06 07:41:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21222989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intothefirewego/pseuds/intothefirewego
Summary: “Marry me.”The words are quiet but deliberate. Merlin’s stomach drops to the bottom of his shoes. Of course, Arthur, the big oaf, would demand instead of ask. He knows what the answer has to be, although his heart begs the opposite. He feels the word burning his throat like fire.





	so can we pretend sweetly before the mystery ends

**Author's Note:**

> title from "john my beloved" by sufjan stevens
> 
> (absolutely beautiful song please give it a listen if you're gay and sad)

The castle is quiet at night, almost eerily so. The hallways are echoing and empty, the courtyard abandoned. The faint torchlight left for the guardsmen flicker like fairies in the tunneled wind. The moonlight, now a sliver in the sky, imparts almost imperceptible silver light upon the silent Camelot. Women tuck their children into beds, blacksmiths stamp out the remaining embers of the fire, and the stablehands lock their masters’ sheds until the morning. All is calm and cool, the crisp autumn air imparting the secret of a cusping winter. Candles are blown out, one by one, warm ethereal light cooled into darkness. The only sounds are the pariah dogs, barking at the air, the quiet nickering of horses falling asleep, and the faint guffaws of men hazy with cheap liquor and debauched women.

Merlin observes the quieting of Camelot as he always does: tucked in his room until Gaius’ snores travel up the stairs. The clouds hang heavy; it will rain tomorrow. Merlin already imagines Arthur’s exasperated annoyance and the stubborn insistence that the knights still practice anyway. He will haul Merlin along and Merlin will stand twenty paces away, fingertips shaking against the freezing metal he has been assigned to sharpen as Arthur knocks his men into the mud over and over and over and over. Merlin will be sick for a week until the day before it rains again. Arthur is nothing if not persistent, Merlin thinks with an eye-roll and the quietly pleased thrill, as if of a secret.

Gaius begins to snore.

Merlin gently pulls his window closed, turning the latch and gently falling from his perch on the chair. Merlin pulls his jacket on as he gently opens his door, listening carefully for any change in Gaius’ temperament. The deep rumble of an inhale, hold, exhale.

_Inhale, hold, exhale_.

Merlin closes his door behind him and shuffles towards the front door.

_Inhale, hold, exhale_.

Gaius shifts in his bed, snorting slightly.

Merlin freezes, excuses flittering uselessly through his mind. _Herbs, couldn’t sleep, tavern, hungry, forgot a chore, something, anything, please_. Gaius rolls over.

_Inhale, hold, exhale_.

Merlin releases a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. Oh bollocks, that had been too close. Merlin closes the rest of the distance and sneaks out of the door. He lets his feet take him almost on instinct to the place he knows to go. He and Arthur had talked—which means that he had talked, and Arthur barely contained his fake-disinterested scowl while Merlin babbled. His destination is close, and an old wooden door sits silent at the end of the hallway. The wood of the door feels cool and ancient under Merlin’s palm once he reaches it. The door opens with a heavy groan and Merlin winces sharply, closing his eyes slightly, and prays that the patrols were on the other side of the castle as he had been promised. Merlin faces the door, carefully closing it so it doesn’t slam.

The door barely closes when a shadow covers his back and warm breath blows on his neck.

“_Merlin_.”

Merlin, panic and adrenaline shooting his nerves to the sky, lets out a _very manly_ battle cry (_thank you very much_), that a callused hand quickly muffles.

“My gods, you really are a girl.” Arthur’s imperious voice mocks. Only a true Arthur expert could suss out the fondness hidden in his tone. From their positions, Merlin can feel the words reverberate from Arthur’s chest to his own back. Merlin whips around, fairly ready to instruct the clotpole on proper midnight tryst etiquette when he fully gets a view of the room around him.

The throne room is illuminated tonight, beautiful flames blazing in sconces, casting intangible shapes out of the shadows on the walls. Merlin’s mouth falls open. The thin moonlight is amplified through the narrow shaft windows, stained glass creating drops of rippling color on the floor. The throne sits regally and vaguely accusing on its pedestal, polished metal and intricate framework highlighted by the torches.

Merlin all but knocks Arthur out of the way, skittering excitedly towards the velvet-accented majesty before him. Arthur’s quiet laugh follows him as Merlin closes the distance, worn leather boots echoing gently in the quiet room. He stops before it, and—aggravatingly—has to resist the urge to kneel. The throne commands a certain amount of respect, even empty—almost like Arthur standing, _glowing_ in his crown, the metal gleaming in his golden hair. Then Arthur unfailingly opens his mouth and demands Merlin do some other pointless chore, and the illusion is broken.

Merlin swallows the lump in his throat. Arthur is going to be a magnificent king. Merlin’s palms are just itching for the day when he would be able to serve alongside Arthur.

“Well go on, then.” Arthur is suddenly behind Merlin, his hand reaching up to lessen the startled jump that Merlin makes. _Damn Arthur’s impossibly good stealth_. Merlin turns around, eyebrow raising.

“Go on what, ‘your highness’?” Merlin blinks. The joking words hang differently in here, echoing in the vaulted ceiling. If Merlin doesn’t know any better, they almost hang like a promise. If Arthur feels anything, he doesn’t show it.

“I know you’ve been dying to.” Arthur rolls his eyes, and pushes Merlin gently back, towards the throne. Merlin laughs, definitely not denying it, and backs up slightly and sits down. Out of all of the moments he had been looking forward to, this experience of sitting on the king’s throne was lackluster. Merlin feels like a liar. He shifts uncomfortably on the throne, looking down at his hands clasping the armrests. It looks wrong. Merlin attempts vainly to cover his unease.

“You there in the brown coat—kiss my rings and tell me how merciful and powerful I am.” Merlin booms, trying to imitate Arthur’s haughty tone. He points at an imaginary servant. “Your face displeases me—you shall be hanged for being a traitor to the crown.” Arthur rolls his eyes. “And—ah yes, my devilishly handsome manservant with the black hair: you are absolutely perfect—have a raise and the day off.” Arthur isn’t making a noise. Merlin’s eyes gravitate towards Arthur like they are always prone to do.

“It suits you,” Arthur says suddenly, eyes lowering to meet Merlin’s own, and there's something so soft and adoring behind them, something so dream-like. Merlin knows where this is going. It always ends up here. Arthur’s achingly earnest devotion and Merlin’s knowledge of what he has to do to discourage Arthur’s plans chokes him. He bites back the urge to stand up and forget this happened again, but he can’t. Not with Arthur standing right in front of him, looking down at him so closely.

“Being a prat?” He forces his tone light, but he can hear the strain. “It seems to fit you so well—“

“I mean the throne.” Arthur interrupts, a small smile pulling his lips up and the cuff he throws at Merlin turns somewhere into a caress. Merlin pulls back, forcing a wild bark of laughter, and ignores the way his heart throbs.

“Arthur.”

It sounds like a warning, and Merlin forces his eyes to a pillar in the corner of the room. Merlin hears a sigh, rushed and aggravated, and this is the part where Arthur walks out, ready to not speak of it. They never do. The rustle of fabric. A hand touches his knee. Merlin jumps and looks back to where Arthur should be, but he’s gone. Arthur is kneeling at his feet, large blue eyes absolutely glowing in the weak torchlight, blonde hair illuminated like a halo. Shadows cast across his face, and he looks ethereal. His body is made of the earth, the lands that Merlin has sworn to protect. His eyes are the sky, pristine and cloudless, his hair is the straw on the ground and the sun in the sky. He’s beautiful. What a scene they must make: A king at the feet of a servant in his throne. Merlin feels gross, dirty, an impostor. This is not how it should be.

Merlin’s hands twitch on the arms of the throne, moving to get up. But Arthur’s gaze holds him down. He feels like a bug pinned to a board. Arthur moves his hands to Merlin’s own, and slowly threads their fingers together. Arthur’s tan hands are rough with calluses, battle-worn, and littered with nicks and scars. Merlin’s long, pale, skinny fingers are without blemish, except for the faint work calluses and their now perceptible small tremble. Arthur blinks up at him, and, _by the gods_, Merlin could get lost in them, however cheesy it may sound. His king, his master, his friend, his _everything_.

“Marry me.”

The words were quiet but deliberate. Merlin’s stomach drops to the bottom of his shoes. _Oh_. A dull pounding thud resonates in his skull. He can’t think. Of course, Arthur, the big oaf, would demand instead of ask. Merlin is going to retort but his tongue is a sponge in his mouth, soaking all the words away. His eyes sting. This…he wasn’t expecting this. He knows what the answer has to be, although his heart begs the opposite. He feels the word burning his throat like fire. Arthur is staring at him, eyes wide and _so damn hopeful_. Merlin opens his mouth, ready to explain, ready to _say anything dammit_.

What comes out of his mouth instead is a broken, strangled noise, filling the silence with an awful disturbance. He looks away, hoping that Arthur can’t see the look on his face. Arthur is reaching for him, eyebrows pinching in concern, a small smile teasing his lips like he is going to make a joke. Arthur’s hands are on Merlin’s face, turning his head.

“Don’t be such a—“ The words die when Arthur sees the tears in Merlin’s eyes. Merlin reaches up and drags Arthur’s hands away with an embarrassing amount of effort.

“Arthur, we can’t.” The words are rushed and forced. Arthur is frozen.

“We can’t what?” Arthur’s words are slow, quiet, filled with rising trepidation. Merlin’s glassy eyes slowly swivel forward. Blue catches on blue and Merlin whispers.

“You know _what_, Arthur. And you know _why_.” Arthur rips his hands away from Merlin’s, brow pinched in stony emotion.

“Well then why, Merlin? Educate me.” Arthur demands, sitting back on his heels, the cadence of his voice an almost desperate kind of anger. Merlin’s hands tremble in his lap.

“I am your servant, sire.” The words hold none of their usual ire. “I have magic. And I am a man. You n-need an heir, Arthur. Your father would—“

“I don’t give a damn what my father thinks!” Arthur says suddenly—forcefully—, hands balling into fists in his lap. Merlin forces himself to remain still.

“Arthur, he would kill me.” Those words seem to strike the man in front of Merlin dumb. His fists tighten and his beautiful—_oh god, he’s so beautiful_—ocean eyes grow dark.

“I would never let that happen.” The words are a whisper. Merlin feels inexplicably like he’s been spending all day collecting ingredients for Gaius in the dense shrubs behind the castle’s west wall. His arms always get covered in large red bug welts, itching his skin until his whole body felt their fire. Merlin fidgets. He can feel the fire licking up his spine.

“You couldn’t stop him, Arthur,” Merlin says. Arthur turns his head to the side sharply, as if slapped. He inhales sharply. Merlin can’t identify the emotion boiling in his eyes right now. “You couldn’t defy your king or your father.”

“He is your king, too.” Arthur points out. “And if I stand up to him, then maybe…” Arthur is clearly grasping at straws, looking for a way out.

“Arthur,” Merlin reaches out and softly slides his palm across Arthur’s warm cheek. He gently coaxes Arthur to look at him. “_He_ is not my king.” Confusion flitters across Arthur’s face before realization follows. His eyes close, brow furrowed. He lets out a pained exhale and holds Merlin’s hand where it rests on his face. They sit in silence. It could have been minutes, or it could have been hours.

“We could run away,” Arthur whispers quietly, almost to himself. Merlin can’t stop the hysterical, desperate laugh from bubbling out of his throat.

“Where? Where in the world could we go where Uther couldn’t find us?”

Arthur opens his eyes and says desperately, “I could find somewhere. We could live and make a farm and we could have goats and sheep and dogs and we could be happy, Merlin.” Merlin sighs, chest aching with the effort it takes. He’s still too shaky to think straight.

“I am happy wherever you are. And Camelot needs you right here. You will be a good king—a fair one. You will be twice the man your father is and maybe—one day…” Merlin tries to disguise the way his voice cracks. Arthur looks up at him, dark blue eyes glowing in the moonlight. Merlin closes his eyes. It’s foolish to think that way. It makes his heart ache as if he’s lost something he’s never had. Arthur’s hand gently lifts Merlin’s chin, and Merlin reluctantly opens his eyes.

“I want you to show me.” Arthur prods gently.

Merlin can’t help the exasperated snort of laughter that bubbles from his throat. Merlin has no idea why he loves this man so much. He is so demanding. Merlin’s magic surges forth without his permission, used to the familiar request. After the original anger had passed, Arthur was hesitant and frightened of Merlin’s magic, although he would never admit it. Now, however, Arthur actively demands Merlin to demonstrate his magic, whether to “make this bath hotter, _Mer_lin,” “make us some light, _Mer_lin,” or…other activities.

Merlin’s magic jumps to his fingertips every time, warm and golden and purring like a housecat to be used for his king. Merlin now barely has time to tamp down on his magic surging forth on command for Arthur to prevent a major magical catastrophe in the throne room. That wouldn’t go over well.

Golden tendrils of light bloom from the night air and twirl tenderly around Arthur’s kneeling form. Arthur is smiling gently up at him, and Merlin slides from the throne so he is kneeling in front of his king. They are now both kneeling on the ground, and the stones dig into Merlin’s knees. He can’t be arsed to care. Arthur shifts his focus to the golden light swirling and breaking like waves all around them, his cerulean eyes almost reflecting the molten color of Merlin’s. A small translucent dragon twirls above their heads, flapping its wings against the cool night air. Arthur’s eyes are tracking it, a gentle smirk pressing the corners of his lips up. Merlin’s hand reaches out in between him and Arthur and the small dragon dives towards his open palm. The iridescent dragon curls around his fingers, nuzzling its snout into Merlin’s palm. It has no weight, and his magic tickles his palm slightly, like the prickling sensation of the heat from an open flame.

Merlin is pushed suddenly back onto his haunches as Arthur’s lips press against his own. His eyes widen. Never let it be said that Arthur Pendragon was a predictable man. Merlin closes his eyes and kisses Arthur back as gently as he can. Arthur pulls back briefly, hot breath spilling across Merlin’s cheeks as he whispers, “I love you.” Merlin whispers the words back, and Arthur smiles, a beatific thing.

They kiss again underneath the swirling masses of glimmering magic, and for now, it is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> hi, i'm not dead!
> 
> i've been working on TPYSIS slowly but surely for literally the past couple of months. i've gotten out of the habit of writing as things have changed in my life, but i'm back, baby!
> 
> i am also in the process of getting a tumblr so i can maybe open requests/officially have an archive/slowly post some of my smaller one-shots there, maybe?
> 
> anyways, here's a piece of writing i've been slowly nurturing since, oh man, 2015? 2016? merlin is my favorite piece of media, probably ever, so i'm very surprised this is my first fic i've posted on here. it's difficult to do something you're so passionate about justice ;-;
> 
> if you liked it, please leave a kudos or a comment! i am literally sustained by them.
> 
> thank you so much for reading! hope you enjoyed!


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